Night Secrets Read Free Page A

become a shrine for the local people. Once every five years or so—when the urge comes upon her—Toby returns to it.” He drew in a deep breath. “But she comes back as she was before,” he added wearily. “Only the tortilla was transformed.” He stood up and stretched, groaning slightly as his arms hung motionless in the dimly lighted air.
    Frank smiled, but said nothing.
    Farouk’s arms sank down again, held rigidly, as if bolted to his sides. Dust swirled around him like tiny flakes of dirty snow. “The rites of spring,” he said, as if to himself, “they are not so kind to a man my age.”
    â€œThey’re not that great for anybody,” Frank told him dryly. He returned his attention to the letter, opening it hurriedly as if it might actually contain something important.
    When he’d finished reading, he passed it over to Farouk. “It’s from Imalia Covallo,” he said. “Trying to explain herself.”
    Farouk’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Covallo,” he whispered as he reached for the letter. “Some things cannot be explained.”
    She’d once been a leading fashion designer, but in a long, winding investigation, Frank had uncovered a lost history, which, in the end, had resulted first in one murder, then another. For this, she was now in prison.
    It was during the ordeal of this investigation that Farouk had come into Frank’s life, an immense, nearly motionless figure in an after-hours bar, one who earned his living simply by “lending assistance in difficult matters,” as he himself had put it at their first meeting. After that they’d moved forward together, as if sewn to each other by a weird, invisible thread, the two of them mismatched in size, Farouk so large against Frank’s lean and haunted look; by color, Farouk’s desert brown, Frank’s Appalachian white; and even by the most basic habits of mind, Farouk cautious and meticulous, Frank hurled forward by a sudden passionate surge.
    In the end, it was a union that had saved Frank’s life, and as he watched Farouk reach for his glasses, he remembered the flash of the pistol that had suddenly materialized in Farouk’s enormous hand, saw Riviera tumble forward, then Farouk again, standing massively behind him, his eyes as calm as his voice when he finally spoke: Come now, my friend. It is not time to die .
    Farouk finished the letter, folded it again, then handed it back to Frank. “Do as you wish,” he said. “But I do not forgive.” Then he smiled brightly as he slapped his great thighs with his hands. “Perhaps we should take in the evening air,” he said.
    Frank shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said reluctantly.
    Farouk smiled. “Are you waiting for a better offer?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen take what is handed to you,” Farouk said as he got to his feet. He walked to the door and waved Frank through it. “Come.”
    Within a few minutes they were in Hell’s Kitchen Park, enjoying the unusually warm breeze that filtered through the empty swings and seesaws. Frank sat on one of the cement benches, his eyes concentrating on two men who leaned against the black metal bars at the other end of the playground.
    Farouk sat beside him, watching them too. He craned his neck, then scratched beneath his chin. “It is the pettiness that kills you,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him. “One should not be eaten in small bites.”
    â€œGood cases are hard to find,” Frank said. He thought of Phillips, the blond woman in the photograph. “The dull ones pay the bills.”
    â€œAnd a man has to eat, yes?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Frank said. He could tell that something had suddenly gone bad between the two men. They faced each other edgily, their voices growing louder and more strained. In an instant, faster than anyone could imagine,